I recently read a true story about the stuntman Luke Aikins. Believe it or not, he landed in a book of world records for…wait for it, jumping out of a plane at 25,000 feet withouta parachute. Unfortunately, he died a few minutes later.

Just kidding. He actually lived to tell the story. How? Using GPS, he was able to navigate his fall and land on a massive 100-by-100 foot net that was suspended between 4 cranes. What’s fascinating about the story is that Luke almost jumped with a parachute as backup. But at the last moment he took it off, fulfilling the dream he had been focused on for years.

And that’s why I’m in awe of Luke. If he had taken the parachute with him, it wouldn’t have been as compelling a story. Thousands of people jump out of planes all the time with parachutes. But the fact that he had none? Well, that’s a story worth telling.

I don’t know if I’ll ever jump out of a plane. And if I do, I’ll probably ask for 2 parachutes, not 1. And a net. A much bigger net.

Maybe then I’ll jump. But if, and only if, everything is exactly how I want it to be.

I don’t know about you, but I like calling the shots. I like pulling strings. I like being in control.

And sometimes, that’s ok. It’s good to have a plan. It’s good to be an organizer. It’s good to have your ducks in a row. (Provided they can fly well if they’re thrown out of planes).

But sometimes, the desire to control can actually hinder the wonder of life.

The ancient Greek philosopher, Heraclitus said, “we do not step into the same river twice.” In other words, nothing ever stays the same. Life is fueled by change.

But here’s the problem, instead of moving to the flow of change, full of hope, full of faith, participating in the beauty of life’s wildness; I kill it with my need to control. I throw in rocks. I hinder its movement.

And maybe, if I try hard enough, I can even dam it up. The river stops its forward motion. It’s walled in. It’s controlled. It’s exactly what I want it to be.

True…but it’s also dead. It’s stagnant. It has no life, energy, or momentum.

The unending need to control will actually kill the very thing that’s supposed to give life. In fact, anything - if it’s alive - needs room to breathe. Organic, authentic things need space to grow and adapt. Relationships, marriage, parenting, experiences, art, beauty, even God...If they, and we, are to flourish in our lives, we have to open our hands, let go of our fear, and embrace the dangerous joy of becoming.

The man ran to Jesus and collapsed at his feet. He was anxious, broken, in need of a miracle. He cried out to Jesus to heal his son. Jesus answered: “Everything is possible to him who believes” (Mark 9v23).

In that moment, the man was confronted with the tension of belief and unbelief, faith and doubt, hope and despair. He intensely wanted to believe, wanted to imagine that everything was ok…but at the same time he couldn’t escape the reality of his story.

His son was sick and he was out of options. It had been years. No doubt he had prayed thousands of times. He cried out to God in the sanctuary. He had wept on the temple floor. But no answer. The heavens were silent.

Where was God…?

And then, suddenly, God was standing before him. Flesh and blood. Grace and Truth. The Word spoke: “Everything is possible to him who believes.”

Jesus words struck him in the deepest way. It exposed the wound. His heart was fragile, vulnerable, pierced by the agony of hope that only the deeply broken can understand.

He caught his breath. His fingers dug into the dirt. Did he still believe? Could he still believe?

And then he said it: “Lord I believe, help my unbelief.”

___________

Of all the prayers in the Bible, this has always struck me as one of the most profound.

Lord, I believe.

This man had faith. Not the kind of faith that simply sounds spiritual or impressive; a wordy stream of religious platitudes or trite mystical phrases. This was the kind of faith that could only come from a place of desperation. He had tried all options, knocked on countless doors, unearthed every stone; but still, he kept coming back to God. It was a faith born of anguish. He genuinely believed that Jesus could do all things. Like a candle illuminating a room, his faith gave him vision when all was dark, a purpose, a reason to keep on hoping.

But his prayer didn’t stop there…

Help my unbelief.

His faith in Jesus was real…but so was his doubt. He couldn’t hide from it, escape its presence, or pretend it wasn’t there. Years of pain and unanswered prayers had forced him to acknowledge not just the light, but the dark. He had to be honest. He had to be real. And so, he brought it all to Jesus.

The faith and doubt.

The hope and despair.

The strength and weakness.

Lord, I believe. Help my belief.

____________

And what I love about this story…is that Jesus heard him. He didn’t send him away, rebuke him for his less than perfect faith. He answered his prayer, stepped into the brokenness, and healed his troubled son.

Sometimes the best prayers are the messiest. Prayers that weep, worry and worship. Prayers that scream, sigh and sing. Prayers that reflect the entangled, complicated mesh of everything we believe and doubt.

And when words fail, and the best we can do is whisper - “Lord I believe, help my unbelief…”

Recently, I had the privilege to visit Uganda, Africa. I was there with a group of pastors for some speaking, and to visit the homes of several ministries that our church supports through Hear the Cry in partnership with Bob Goff. The country is beautiful, the culture wonderfully contagious, and the people full of life. I was struck by their hospitality, faith and perseverance in difficult times…but especially (and ironically) their joy. This was surprising, because virtually everything in their physical environment screamed the opposite of joy. The level of poverty we witnessed was profound. Their history of war and bloodshed all too recent. We heard stories of loss, tragedy and heartache. I’ll never forget sitting in the Bokuto home (a ministry for women rescued from sexual violence), listening to an 11-year-old girl share her story. So emotional. So devastating. Words fail…And this was just one story among many that I experienced during our time.

And yet…emerging from the midst of these stories was a common and incessant theme: joy. It couldn’t be suppressed. It refused to yield to the pain within them. It rose up in defiance, like a flower that inexplicably finds its way through hardened soil. It doesn’t belong there, it shouldn’t be there…but it is there. And its presence changes everything.

David, who also suffered in terrible ways, once wrote that the ‘joy of the Lord is our strength’ (Psalm 16v11). Notice, he didn’t say my joy is my strength. It wasn’t his. It was something else. Something other. Something beyond and standing in defiance of his story. It was God’s joy. It was his presence in difficult times. This was a reality that no experience could alter. In fact, it only made it stronger.

We saw all of this in Uganda, and to be honest, I’m still processing what it means for my own life.

But for now, I’m convinced that joy is never a product of circumstance…but the beauty of the heart.

I’m learning that joy is a choice…but it’s more than a choice. It’s a posture. It’s a reflection of where we look for meaning, hope and justice.

And, finally, joy is real. You can fabricate happiness, but it quickly dissipates when times are tough.